


Peace With and Without

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Domestic Fluff, Dominant/Top Dean, Explicit Sexual Content, Future Fic, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Sibling Incest, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The final chapter to the Chicago Verse. Please read previous chapters to make sense. The boys settle down in Chicago, years after the events of S8. Not everyone they meet is a friend. References to weecest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peace With and Without

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who stuck through and read the Chicago Verse! I appreciate all of you and the time you took to read this. I'm happy with this and so proud. Any comments and feedback would be appreciated!

Not a heart attack.

Just one awful panic attack.

“Not good for a guy his age,” the attending ER doctor reported to Sam as they both stood at the foot of Dean’s ER bed. “Any sudden strain on the heart like this could cause major damage or complications down the line. Any idea what triggered it?”

Oh, just the run of the mill kind of stuff. My partner here, who is really my older brother with whom I used to hunt vampires and demons and shit, just freaked because someone found out about our incestuous gay romance and it threatens our relationship but I’m going to fucking kill him when he wakes up. All of that stirs around in Sam’s head, chest, and mouth. But he can’t bring himself to spill everything, though for the first time in a while he wants to.

Instead, he walks over and places a territorial hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“He’s ex-military,” Sam eventually mumbles out. “It happens.” He wonders what kind of careers they would have had a million lifetimes ago. Sometimes the lies from this lifetime seem to bleed in and out of others.

The ER doctor eyed him carefully. She was checking their story out, trying to read him. He wondered if she got many cases like these and if she played poker.

“As long as your partner is asleep, I have a few questions.” Not giving up easily. Fine, Sam could do this. He’d done it countless times before, with staff upon staff at various hospitals all across the country under at least a hundred different aliases, armed with an arsenal of lies, half-truths, and fake backgrounds. When doctors thought they were stitching up one of the Winchesters from a particularly bad car accident, hiking accident, recreational sports accident they were really treating the aftereffects of harpies, vampires, faeries, black dogs, or whatever else needed killing but got a hair too close.

Dean used to have this winding scar from his left hip up to his right shoulder blade from a werewolf scratch. It was the kind of cut that John couldn’t fix so he’d hauled his boys to the ER and left them there, stating to thirteen year old Sam that he couldn’t stick around and risk CPS being called and their asses tagged. “You make sure they stitch him up good,” John muttered before the Impala surged forward and didn’t stop.

Sam never did tell Dean that John had just left them there, in a hospital full of strangers and civilians. He told him that John had come in with them and left halfway on a call for another case.

“The team that picked you up reported that the residence showed signs of a display of anger.” Her voice cuts through Sam’s memories.

“Meaning?”

“Your place was a wreck.”

He wants to snap at her that those aren’t questions. He knows he’s tense and thrumming with frustration and anxiety. “Of course it was. He’s had a PTSD diagnosis since he came back. He doesn’t know where he is when attacks happen.” Though this once—bad enough to warrant a trip to the ER in an ambulance—is the worst Dean’s had in a while. Sam keeps that to himself.

This ER doctor is searching for something and Sam can’t quite understand it.

“Mr. Winchester, does your partner ab—“

He stops her right there.

Right the fuck there.

“No and if you’ll excuse us, I would like some time alone with my partner,” Sam all but snarls. He can’t continue with this conversation right now. He has to check Dean over himself,  just to make sure,  just to reassure himself that they’re going to be okay.

“Fine,” she snaps back, “there’s blood work coming back from the labs in half an hour and assuming everything is fine, you can go.”

Whatever she was expecting to find, she isn’t going to find it here, Sam tells himself. She leaves with a flap of the thin privacy curtain, heels clacking on the floor. He drags a chair over and sets up camp, holding Dean’s right hand. There’s an IV in his left, for fluids. Standard heart monitors are pasted onto his chest and there’s a blood pressure cuff and oxygen line. Sam sighs and scrubs his face with his free hand. He could sink back into a dozen memories but he chooses to keep busy instead. He calls and leaves a message with someone at work, letting them know he’s had a family emergency and not to expect him in until Wednesday. A few details about the event and project are rattled off but otherwise Sam keeps it short. He calls Dean’s boss, who answers and asks if they need anything. Sam thanks him but says no, they just need some time.

Phone calls done with, Sam puts his phone away and resists the urge to crawl into the tiny hospital bed with Dean.

“I’m not dad,” Sam says out loud. He isn’t going to leave Dean here. Or anywhere, for that matter. “I’m not.”

He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince and if it’s actually working.

 

 

There’s a certain stigma about two brothers living together well into their forties. They become _those_ men. Something creepy and freakish hangs around them constantly when people who know them as brothers come across them. Who shares a house with their forty year old brother?

So they stay out of the paths of people who know them as the Winchester brothers and in the lives of people who know them as the Winchesters.

The running story Dean likes to crow to people is that, “Sammy here just couldn’t _stand_ being away from me when I went overseas. So he asked if he could change his name to mine. Y’know, so he could always have a piece of me with him. Ain’t that fuckin’ sweet?” And that’s that. Sam Winchester the twelve year old who blew his brother in the backseat of the Impala at every chance they got wouldn’t exist to these people.

“His blood work checks out fine,” a nurse reports as she walks in. “But his cholesterol is on the high side. Have him ease off the steak for a while.” She gives them both a smile. “Likes his steak, huh?”

“It’ll be tough,” Sam replies with a small smile to exchange. “But I think he’ll manage.”

She cheerfully begins to explain discharge instructions. Sam can take him home now, while he’s asleep, but he should be careful when he wakes up because he’ll be disoriented. “The doctor didn’t prescribe anything for the anxiety, but make sure he sleeps well tonight. People underestimate a good night of sleep. If this keeps up, he should see a professional about these attacks. You’re lucky we’re close to the medical district.”

Sam nods and thanks her. He watches her work with a cautious eye but she’s gentle as she removes the equipment off of Dean. Between the two of them, they get Dean dressed and into a wheelchair. His older brother moves pliantly, groaning a few times in his sleep.

The nurse gets a male intern to help Sam take Dean outside and load him into a cab.

“’urn off the tv Sam,” Dean grumbles, a line of drool present.

“Okay, Dean,” Sam whispers into Dean’s ear, a shoulder slung over him. “It’s off.”

Dean grunts, happy that his command as older brother has been followed through.

The cab driver thankfully lowers the sports station he had on and Dean starts to snore, drooling on Sam’s shirt.

Sam takes advantage and presses a kiss to Dean’s temple, where there are streaks of silver.

 

 

Dean doesn’t wake up the entire night, which worried Sam until he saw evidence to stop. At one in the morning, drooling everywhere, Dean’s half hard in his deep state of sleep. Whatever he’s dreaming about must be good.

The kitchen is a wreck. But it’s nothing too bad. Nothing’s broken.

That’s what matters.

He cleans it up and is careful to put things back in their proper places. The kitchen is Dean’s domain; he rules it with an iron fist. Sam thinks about Iron Chef and wonders what Dean would be like on a show like that. The picture makes him laugh out loud to no one.

When everything’s put away and cleaned up, Sam drinks a few glasses of water and throws together a sandwich. He’s glad that their house is small; he can hear Dean snoring away from the kitchen as he eats and reads through a few pieces of mail for work. Restless, he paces the house and rechecks some of the sigils and markings they’ve kept up. The locks are good. He takes a quick shower to get the smell of the hospital off him and sinks into bed next to Dean.

“Mmm,” Dean snuffles and becomes the octopus for the night, plastered against Sam.

Sam doesn’t mind.

 

 

They spend the next two days as recluses from the world.

Sam maintains a careful, dangerous balance of taking care of Dean and babying him but not letting him notice. They watch the Price is Right together both mornings.

“Fuck, I’d win so much cash,” Dean grumbles. “C’mon! Fuckers that bet a dollar.” Sam winces as Dean’s elbow digs into his side from the angry flailing at the television screen. Dean doesn’t say sorry, but he does place his hand where he dug in, and that’s just as good.

“You’re getting too worked up about something involving Drew Carey,” Sam teases. They’re in the living room, sharing a couch and an ottoman, sprawled out with a bowl of strawberries to the side.

Dean scowls, “I could be rich, Sam. Filthy, stinking rich.”

“You were, remember? Fake you was doing pretty well.”

“Don’t remind me! Ugh!” Dean throws an arm over his eyes for added dramatic effect. “I bet I had a mansion of my fake own!” Then he peers at Sam with a hint of wickedness in his eyes. “But noooo I got stuck sharing a tiny shack with a giant who leaves his dirty laundry everywhere.”

Sam punches Dean in the shoulder. Then he gets up and starts to make lunch. He hasn’t told Dean about the cholesterol yet, choosing instead to see if he notices. There’s not much in their fridge but there’s enough for turkey sandwiches and Sam finds a stray bag of chips.

“Can I get some service before lunch?” Dean asks, taking the food from Sam, spreading his legs to lewdly show the tent in his sweats.

“You’re such a pig,” Sam sighs.

“I’m sick,” Dean whines with a grin. “You gotta take care of your patient and your patient has needs. Manly needs. Big, long needs.”

“Oh my god, I might kill you.”

“Sammy…”

“Yep,” Sam says, picking up his sandwich. “Then I can have the whole house to myself and no one will ever bother me for blow jobs again.”

Seeing that Sam has no intention of giving in, Dean pouts and sulkily eats his lunch.

 

 

On Tuesday afternoon, there is nothing edible left in the house. They decide to go for a walk and get at least a few bags of groceries. They stop by Mrs. Martinez’s house just for a moment, to assure her that el rubio is fine. She kisses Dean’s cheek, he squeezes her hand. They walk away and amble on.

“You know…”

“No, Sam.”

“We have to talk about this.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Fine, then you just shut up and I’ll talk.” Dean shoots him a glare but Sam goes on, hands in his pockets as he walks. “No one’s going to come after us with pitchforks if they know. We’re two consenting adults. That’s it. That’s all that matters.”

Instead of the silence he thinks he’s going to receive, Sam gets a short, sharp laugh.

“Really? You think that’s it? Sam, what…” Dean looks around and makes sure no one is near them as they walk. “This is? It’s not every day shit. This isn’t even about the… gay thing. Folks are used to that now but you know what they’re not used to?” Dean can’t bring himself to say it but Sam knows he’s thinking it.

“No one cares, Dean. Everyone’s wrapped up in their own little worlds except for that one person and what does she matter to us? Who is she in our lives? Jesus. Who is she going to tell? You think anyone gives two shits about what we do in our own home? Dean, stop, stop, look at me.” Sam places his hands on Dean’s shoulders, which he knows makes Dean nervous but he doesn’t care right now. “I’m not moving out of here. I’m done with that. We’re not packing up and moving out just because she thinks she knows. She doesn’t. I’m happy here. I thought _you_ were happy here.”

Dean shoves him off and walks ahead. That he did expect.

Of course, Sam follows.

But he does something different.

“Nothing has to change, we were doing fine. We _are_ doing fine,” Sam spills out. “Tell me what you want Dean and I’ll do it. Okay, I’ll do it for you because I can’t do it without you.” He goes for the long shot. “Tell me what you need me to do.” He swoops his hand in and catches Dean’s. They stumble forward together holding hands until they both stop. Dean looks at their joined hands and then up at Sam.

Sam sees the internal struggle. The instinct to pull away.

He wonders what wins.

“You’re such a baby,” Dean sneers and starts walking, hands linked. A little way down, Dean talks in a softer voice. “I can’t stand to see people look at you like you’re…”

Sam acknowledges that Dean doesn’t include himself in that. Dean doesn’t care how other people see him but it matters how other people see Sam. Same old issues, different situations. He squeezes Dean’s hand. “Doesn’t matter to me, I’m too busy looking at your saggy ass.”

Dean’s grateful for the out. He shoves Sam playfully and starts swinging their hands. “My ass ain’t saggy. My ass is a masterpiece. You should build a shrine to this ass.”

They get to the store and a few people look at them but mostly everyone carries on. This isn’t a particularly gay or queer neighborhood but there are definitely stranger things to look at than two men holding hands. They separate so Sam can push the cart and Dean can pick out vegetables. He talks about the shop and cars that come in, wonders out loud to see if they can afford to help Mrs. Martinez make some repairs on her car, gets distracted and starts to talk about strawberries in season.

It’s while they’re turning the corner to the meat section when they both see her.

The way she’s standing in the light at that moment makes it seem like she’s glowing. Really, Sam knows that it’s just the particular way the sun and fluorescent lights are streaming in but the effect is powerful. If he were any kind of photographer, this would a worthy moment. She looks younger and kinder than any time he’s seen her before.

That is, of course, until she sees them.

What’s odd though, is that she doesn’t move from her spot. She breaks eye contact and continues speaking to someone behind the fish counter.

“Dean,” Sam murmurs and looks at his brother. “Calm down.”

“I can’t, Sammy. I can’t. Gotta…”

“No,” Sam says firmly, putting a hand on the small of Dean’s back. “You’re going to order two pounds of chicken and some of that steak you like. Make sure he trims it because I don’t want to hear you bitching about it later.”

Dean shakes his head no but Sam insists, even though Dean’s hands are shaking. Together, they turn to the counter, Sam’s on Dean’s left to act as a buffer.

He noticed her a long time before any of this started. She was at the first party Mrs. Martinez had invited them to as new members of the block. There’d been so many people there though, jammed into the tiny backyard space, that he knew she hadn’t seen them. He’d seen her first, and thought the dress she had on had so many colors, all of them worked so well together. And he thought to that mural he’d seen at the museum. It all pulled together.

Sam knows that Dean is beating himself up on the inside for the whole trip to the emergency room and the subsequent emotions. Winchesters are made of tough stuff. They aren’t supposed to have panic attacks or be threatened by one civilian. Sam leans in and wraps his arms around Dean, his chest pressed to Dean’s back.

Miguel the butcher looks at them and smiles, handing over a package. “Thank you, have a good day.” They’re simple words but they do enough. Marina is gone and Sam is almost sad about that.

 

 

They hunt that weekend because Sam knows Dean needs to.

As they drag the body of a vampire through a field, Sam wonders what their outlets would be if John had coached them in little league or football.

Instead of watching his older brother’s muscles work at severing the head of this vampire before he tosses it into a ditch and setting it on fire, Sam could be watching Dean practicing swings with a bat or throws with a football.

“Stop,” is all Sam has to say when he sees Dean keep hacking well past necessary.

He gets a professional nod in response and soon enough they’re watching the fire, still never leaving a job until it’s completely done.

When they get home, Sam has his turn at tossing Dean onto his bed. They’re filthy and they stink of sweat, blood, and old dirt. But he can’t ignore the look in Dean’s eyes or the heat that pools at his fingertips when he traces the strong curve of Dean’s thighs up and around and underneath him. Panting and cursing and licking and nipping, Dean is _loud_.

Sam buries himself in the space between Dean’s neck and shoulder, biting down roughly and grinding down. Dean touches him in places Sam might forget he enjoys were it not for Dean’s reminders. Constant, steady reminders over the years that have turned into need.

“Now, Sammy, god,” Dean moans out, one hand tangled in Sam’s hair and the other firmly groping Sam’s hips and thighs.

“Supposed to be…relaxing…” Sam pants back, sloppily kissing Dean in between words. “This ain’t what the doctor had in mind.”

They spread out on Sam’s bed because they can. Because it’s not the backseat of the Impala (though Sam can’t quite knock that) or the suspicious mattress of an hourly motel. Because they both take up a lot of room and Sam insists on using all the room they’ve got. Dean squeezes his cock in a terribly right place, causing Sam’s knees to go weak and his heart to pound. Sam curses, Dean laughs. Somehow, their positions change and before Sam knows it—but oh, he was demanding it—Dean is behind him, mounted and eager. The pace is exquisite; there’s no other way for Sam to describe it.

He lets out small grunts every time Dean thrusts in. He pushes back and flexes, challenging Dean for every inch.

“Harder,” Sam demands, sweating from exertion. “That all you got, old man?”

“Sam…”

“C’mon _big brother_ ,” Sam manages to moan half into the mattress and half to Dean. “Harder.”

He took a chance. Dean could’ve freaked out about bringing up the whole incest issue during sex—because as he had explained some years before, “Sometimes, Sammy, I just can’t see you as my boy, okay? I just can’t. You’d understand if you were oldest.”—but he doesn’t. It seems to have the effect Sam wants. Dean winds up, grips onto Sam’s hips, and lets out a moan so loud and forceful, Sam’s toes curl.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” Dean pants as he pistons in, cock twitching and releasing. “Oh shit, Sam… Sam… fuck yes.” Dean doesn’t stop, he always gets Sam off, and keeps pumping until Sam himself is a pile of sensitive nerves. He comes the way Dean likes—completely untouched—and lets Dean finger him to a second orgasm, fingers squelching and slipping in easily.

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam gasps as Dean blows him at the same time. “Coming, coming…”

Sex has never been a problem between them. What Sam didn’t know, Dean taught him. Some things they learned together. More than a few times Sam was taught something new pressed down in the backseat of the Impala, Dean’s jacket hanging on him, his worn jeans at his ankles as Dean smirked and breathed and asked, “Are you ready, Sammy?”

As twisted as it sounds to anyone who isn’t them, Sam knows he had a good childhood because of the thing between him and Dean. Sure, it became too intense sometimes—that one time in some diner out on Arizona, they hadn’t been careful enough, too wrapped up in the other, and folks had found Sam on his knees during a lesson in deep throating and holy shit, they found John and screamed at him to start up the car Dad, they saw Dean’s gun and people are asking questions, floor it Dad!—and it blew up in their faces at moments—You’re _leaving_?—but Sam thinks back. He thinks back and he smiles because if he has to choose a moment of his childhood to sum it up, there’s this blonde boy with freckles involved. It’s them sprawled out in the back of the Impala, even though Dean had front seat privileges, when Sam was fourteen and Dean was nineteen and he smelled like gun powder, cherry slush, and clean sweat.

He doesn’t remember the song John had on, but he does remember the rumble of the Impala. John let them put their feet up and Dean hooked his over Sam’s. Their fingertips touched on the seat and they’d look at each other from time to time and smile.

Sam remembers the words—fast forward a million miles and countless looks over later—in the museum. What’s at the center? Everything.

 

 

Later on, after much needed showers, sprawled out in bed, Dean is tracing the lines on Sam’s chest and middle. Sam hums, pleased and relaxed, one hand threading through Dean’s hair.

“You were really blonde when we were kids,” Sam says softly. “Surprised you’re not bald.”

Dean grumbles, “Always gotta ruin the moment with talking, Sam.”

“It’s okay to talk after sex, you know. Instead of rolling over and falling asleep like a rock. Bet you were a _joy_ to sleep with.”

“Hey,” Dean snaps back without any heat it in. He pressed them closer and places a few light kisses on Sam’s jawline. “I don’t have to take this shit. I’m wanted— _adored_ —by everyone anywhere I go.”

Sam can’t help but laugh; it’s a deep, satisfying laugh. It reminds him of summers left alone in dilapidated farm houses and grungy apartments.

“Sleep, Dean,” Sam murmurs, closing his eyes. “You’re delusional.” And they do just that.

 

 

They find their rhythm again and even do a few things outside of it. Sam picks Dean up early from the garage one day and they take the L up north. Dean pesters him about the surprise destination and Sam is just about to smother his brother and tell all the witnesses that it was justifiable murder.

Dean isn’t as smarmy when he sees that Sam has taken him to Boystown. He spends the day going from super-over compensating-antiquer-manly man to swishy-prissy-flaming-gay to fuck with Sam, who tries his best to remind himself why he thought this was a good idea and why he needs Dean to live because who else knows how to fix the Impala?

They spend that day walking around and going to comic book stores and eating Korean tacos. Dean gets too many Batman comic books and Sam eats too many tacos. They get home and Dean organizes his comics in a box while Sam sits next to him and verbally harasses him. At some point, Dean snaps and a chase around the house begins. They tumble outside, onto their tiny backyard lawn, and wrestle, which turns into sparring and develops into a quick make out session before Mrs. Martinez sprays them with a hose and laughs and claims to be calling the cops and invites them over for Mexican hot chocolate and cookies. The day ends in Dean’s bed, naked and together. Dean’s leg hooks over Sam’s.

 

 

Kevin visits. He sits on the front porch and just observes.

Sam can’t call it staring because that’d make it creepier.

Dean forces the kid to eat a paleta.

Though Kevin’s not a kid anymore and hasn’t been for a long time. And he’s mostly silent, doesn’t say much. But that’s okay.

Winchesters are good with silence.

 

 

Kevin meets Marina and talks to her. She doesn’t know he knows Sam and Dean. He asks her out for dinner and she says yes, or so the story goes when Sam hears it. They have a nice time—he takes her to a Thai place near the University—and they’re walking around the block. Kevin stops outside their house and invites her in to meet the friends he’s staying with.

“She took off running,” Kevin reports with a frustrated sigh. “First girl I talk to in forever and she _ran away from me_. You’re bad luck.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’ve had that said to me before.”

 

 

Their rhythm is only a little offset with Kevin around. They don’t ask him why he visits or how long he intends to stay. It’s just not done. He sleeps in Dean’s room because it’s neater (more organized, Jesus) and he gets a small part time job at the museum gift shop. Ten hours a week at ten an hour and he’s got some pocket change. He gives Sam a twenty for his room and board and takes the rest and buys a few nice outfits. They introduce him to Mrs. Martinez, who is beside herself and takes him in immediately.

On an evening where they drop by to return some of her Tupperware, Marina is there. She bolts from Mrs. Martinez’s patio, knocking over a chair.

Sam’s had enough.

And it looks like Mrs. Martinez has, too.

She goes after Marina, shouting in Spanish. Something she says makes Marina freeze and come back.

“This is it,” Mrs. Martinez announces. “You will sit here and you will _talk_ because I cannot see this anymore. Ven conmigo mijo.” She pulls Kevin into her house and shuts the screen door.

Between Marina and Dean, Sam is not sure who is the closest to a mental breakdown.

He clears his throat and the both of them jump. Okay.

“Why are you here?” Marina asks sharply. She’s wearing another colorful dress that is cheerful and bright. It is the opposite of her emotions towards them.

Sam gives Dean the signal that he’s got this. “We liked it here,” is what Sam replies. “Same as anyone else here.”

Her eyes narrow. “No. You could have picked any other neighborhood. I know you go to the North side. You could have lived there.”

“We couldn’t afford the rent there,” Sam mutters out. “And we wanted a house. We needed privacy.”

The allusion to _why_ they needed privacy makes Marina blush and Dean twist in his chair.

“Look,” Sam says, leaning forward. He’s tired and he just wants to get to the point. “We know you didn’t like us before—I guess I wouldn’t either. But we also know you heard something that wasn’t yours to hear. I just want to tell you…” He speaks softly but firmly. “We don’t care if you know.”

The last thing he’s expecting from her is laughter.

She laughs clear and seemingly easy. They wait for her to stop and talk.

“I know what you are and I know who you are,” she announces in an even voice. “And I don’t care for any of it.”

“Wait, wait,” Dean growls. “What do you think you know? Huh? What could you possibly know about us?” Dean’s voice is on edge; Sam knows that voice. It’s a low warning that he’s prepared to defend what is his at all costs. Sam puts a hand on Dean’s arm to steady him.

“it’s junior detective work,” Marina snaps with a sneer. “You didn’t bother to buy your house under different names. And Sam and Dean Winchester? Doesn’t take much digging if you can tell the trail’s been wiped.”

After the Leviathans went on a rampage across the country—and Sam and Dean were technically dead yet again—they did their best to pull their names out of databases. Sam figured enough time had passed between then and now and he was so sick of aliases. He wanted their _home_ to belong to the Winchesters.

But this was an interesting turn of personality. Where was the shy, reserved young lady Marina had always been previously?

Before Dean can snap back, Sam puts on his best fake smile and speaks with the voice he saves for children. Nothing about this makes sense anymore but he’s piecing it together. “We aren’t here to continue business. We’re here to pay our bills and grill outside. That’s it.”

“Bullshit! Hunters bring bad blood wherever they go—even the _end of the world_.” She says that part while looking right at Sam. And Sam doesn’t move fast enough to keep Dean from standing up and moving towards her. But he does move fast enough to wedge himself in between the two, acting as a buffer yet again.

“You little…”

“Dean!” Sam hisses. “Calm down.” He can feel Dean’s blood pressure rise. Not that his is doing any better.

“Who are you?!” Dean barks, moving to be beside Sam instead of behind him. “We _died_ —our _family_ died—to save ungrateful assholes like you.”

“Yes but you always got brought back,” she scowls and stands up. “Not all of us had the same advantage now, did we?”

A moment of complete, awkward, tense silence passes between them. Sam can see Dean working it out. He pushes Dean back slightly, just to giveeveryone more space to breathe. He wonders what Mrs. Martinez is having Kevin fix or replace in her house.

“Your text book,” Sam murmurs. “Ancient Central American mythology and folklore.”

She doesn’t respond, just stares at him with hard eyes.

“Is that why you’ve been so hostile to us? Because you recognized us as hunters?” Sam asks openly.

“Not all of it.”

“Then it’s because of… the nature of our relationship,” Sam says carefully. Dean shoots him a glare. For all of Dean’s strut and swagger, Dean is a fiercely private man. He doesn’t appreciate others trying to glimpse into their lives.

Marina laughs again and shakes her head, her brown hair falling in waves over her shoulders. “You think you were the only children of hunters raised in the life? Please. You two think you’re always at the center of the world. Of everything.”

“Cut out the dramatic bullshit,” Dean shouts in frustration. “So what? You grew up like we did? You want us to mourn for your lost childhood? Well too fucking bad because we never had one either, sister.”

Sam wants to be home. He wants to be lazily fucking on the couch in the living room, riding Dean like they’d got nothing but time, flickering teasing kisses on that lush mouth. He wants to be in his room, sprawled next to Dean, watching reruns of bad television shows. He wants to be on the patio, with a beer, listening to Dean talk about everything and nothing all at once.

“I had a sister, you douche bag!” Marina screams. “I had a sister and she was _my_ everything,” she continues to scream at them, clutching her chest. “And I lost her. I lost her to a fucking vampire nest outside of Joliet. It took me years to sober up and look at myself again. I found _this_ place and I start to think that yeah, I can live without Marta, I can move on. Then you come here and… and…” It looks like she’s about to either run away or break down sobbing. She does neither. She sniffles and holds her head up, proud and stubborn.

“I don’t know why I just can’t look at both of you,” she says with a shrug. “I got a permanent funeral and you two got each other. I just. It’s not fair. Isn’t that stupid? That’s all my emotions boil down to, really. It’s not fair.”

Sam looks over to Dean, who refuses to look at anyone. He sighs and sits down.

“Usually I’d give you some long speech about how none of this is ever fair,” Sam murmurs. “But I can’t. That’s not who I am anymore. I’m sorry that you lost someone and…and I’m sorry it was your sister.” He manages to keep eye contact with her as he says that last part and the next. “But we aren’t leaving.”

Marina nods and stands, looks at them both, then leaves. With a swing of the gate she’s gone.

“Sammy,” Dean mumbles.

“Dean,” Sam mumbles back.

 

 

The day Kevin leaves—two weeks after the show down at Mrs. Martinez’s—is also the night someone breaks into Mrs. Martinez’s house.

Luckily, she had her cell phone near her when she heard glass shatter and Kevin had just programmed her phone to speed dial Sam and Dean. While Sam calmed Mrs. Martinez down and called the police—he was amused that a Winchester was actually calling the police voluntarily—Dean was busy practicing a citizen’s arrest on the two individuals who thought they could run away.

As much as Sam wants to lecture Dean about violence, he is conflicted. One, he finds it _hot_ that his big brother can still beat a lesson into those who need it. Two, he is happy that Mrs. Martinez called them and that they interrupted the crime in progress. Three, they get closure.

Well, as much closure as Winchesters will get.

Mrs. Martinez makes them a huge dinner and keeps the salsa away from Dean all night. They eat—at their place instead of hers for once—until the three of them are reduced to bloated, warm, sleepy lumps on the couches of the living room. They even get her to do two shots of tequila. Sam escorts her back home that night while Dean locks up.

Dean places his hand on Sam’s stomach, later on that night, and Sam groans, “If you think you’re getting sex tonight, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Ass,” Dean mutters. “Just… shut up.”

Sam shuts up.

Weeks pass and summer eventually changes into fall. Paletas are replaced with elotes and they share one on their front porch on a mild Wednesday evening, butter dripping down their chins.

Dean takes to sitting outside more often; sometimes he plays a song on the guitar Sam bought him as a birthday present a few years back and sometimes he just lays on the chair swing, humming to himself.

Sam pulls away from work because he’d much rather spend his evenings with Dean, doing whatever it is Dean wants to do. Though sometimes Sam does manage to get Dean to do things he wants to do. They try vegan food at the Chicago Diner (no thank you) and eat greasy cheese fries that give Dean heartburn at an all-night café. They see a play, an opera, and go to all the museums. Dean likes the Museum of Science and Industry because of the bodies in jars and the ice cream parlor; Sam prefers the Field Museum but could also spend hours at the Planetarium.

For the most part, they get to know the city and the city gets to know them.

Kevin visits, Garth in tow, and Dean grills steaks for everyone.

They both struggle still with anxiety attacks and Sam has learned to accept them as a permanent consequence of his former life. John still hovers but he’s less demanding than he used to be. Sam wonders at times if this means something more but he has no way of finding out.

Sam quits smoking.

Dean eases off red meat and eats one vegetarian meal a week.

There are several times when one Winchester almost has it with the other Winchester’s habits.

 

 

No one sees or hears from Marina in that stretch of time. Not even Mrs. Martinez, who really is too nice.

But one day, while checking the mail, Sam opens a letter and out falls a pink post-it note.

On it is scrawled a message, tiny and rushed.

_I found peace with and without her. Good luck_.

Sam understands the message as an update and a warning.

One day, it’ll be his turn to ache, to rage, to mourn again, for one final, permanent time.

Dean steps out of the house, in nothing but his boxers, which are really Sam’s, and scratches his ass, squints at Sam. “The hell you doing? Get back inside before you freeze.”

That day isn’t today.

“Yeah, yeah old man.”

Something that has taken residence on Sam’s chest is now in need of a different home. It unwinds and releases everything. It tells him the meaning of life before it leaves and Sam is happy to reply that he already knows.

“C’mon Sammy m’boy,” Dean laughs, slinging an arm around Sam’s waist, pulling him in. “I got all day.”

 

 


End file.
